


Merit

by nxttime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Latino Jason Todd, Mental Health Issues, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Tim Drake Has Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxttime/pseuds/nxttime
Summary: "If it [my heart] stopped… …Would you miss me?"Tim's not doing too good.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Tim Drake
Comments: 17
Kudos: 329





	Merit

**Author's Note:**

> This was written because Tim needs someone to tell him he's worth something.
> 
> Side-Note: This took a turn I did not expect it to and now has a meaning to it that you'll have to read for yourself.

Whether you realize it or not, everyone's past shapes who they are; everyone's past molds their future. Whatever is created by the past is not sculpted in cement, but the past will always affect an individual. If it is their future, their present, or their personality, the past always plays a hand in someone's life.

Tim Drake is a prime example.

As a child, Tim never received any love or attention from his parents. He was always alone, never with a stable caretaker. He received schooling and, as was expected of him, always remained top in his class. Never did he bring home anything less than an A. Timothy was raised under the pretense of "Children are to be seen, not heard" extremely literally. He was never valued in his house. Timothy was never seen as worth anything. The only reason Jack and Janet Drake decided on a child was for an heir to inherit their company. He wasn't treated like a child, Timothy was treated like an experiment. Never shown affection, never paid attention to, never listened to, never valued, never seen as worth anything more than a pre-decided future. When his parents died, the only reason Timothy was so shaken, whether he realized it or not, was because some part of him was still hoping to achieve their approval. A small part of him was still longing to hear the five words. "I'm proud of you Timmy." Timmy. The affection he was never shown. A nickname.

It only makes sense that even now, as Red Robin and the most skilled hacker and detective in the Bat-Clan, Timothy doesn't see any worth in himself. All Tim thinks of himself is one thing: expendable. Maybe two things? The second being nothing more than a co-worker of sorts. Tim sees no place for himself in the Bat-Clan. After all, Dick and Jason had been chosen as Robin by Bruce, and Tim had been swapped out for Damian by Dick. Tim was the one nobody wanted. He was the Robin Batman hadn't chosen. He forced himself into the role. Tim pushed himself onto Bruce, and into the Bat-Fami—Bat- _Clan_. He doesn't see himself as part of the very much (as Jason would put it) fucked-up family unit. There's another thing; Robin he'd _idolized_ , _Tim's_ Robin, had done the impossible. He'd returned from the grave. Tim would have gladly given the mantle back if he'd just known _sooner_. Instead, the former Robin—Tim's _idol_ —had nearly beaten him to death in his own team-base. Sure, they'd gotten past it, but Tim gets it. Nobody wants him around; nobody necessarily needs him, unless it's for some bit of info they can't get themselves.

So, as he collapses on a building he's… 42% sure is located near one of Hood's safehouses, all Tim manages to think is:

 _I should have paid more attention. I should have seen the guy with the knife. God, I'm an idiot. B will be disappointed, Jason will only care that I'm bleeding on one of the rooftops in_ his _turf, Dick won't… he'll pretend he cares, and Damian will rub in._

… _If I don't bleed out first._

His vision is spotty at _best_ , and Tim knows he should be concerned because he's not even bothering to put pressure on the wound, but he can't bring himself to care. What's there to care about? He deserves whatever fate decides for him. If fate chooses death, so be it. Tim should have paid closer attention like he'd been taught, but he screwed up. Tim royally fucked up and he deserves this. The knife had penetrated the vulnerable spot in Tim's Red Robin garb just below the left side of his ribs. It hadn't gone _too_ deep...

He thinks.

Tim can't really do much about it anymore—at least he was able to haul his bleeding ass out of there victorious. Heavily wounded, but victorious nonetheless. His body feels like it's got lead running through his veins, and, right now, his arms feel like they weigh a ton each.

His comm is off, and Tim should probably turn it on, but if he does he'll probably be interfering with something Batman's doing. He'd be concerned about bothering Nightwing, but Dick's in Blϋdhaven for the next month and a half. Jason's hardly ever on their frequency, but on the off chance that he decided to hack into it tonight, Tim doesn't want to burden Red Hood. He's the only one watching after the east end anyways (per his... persuasive, insisting); Jason doesn't need to cut his patrol short for something Tim'll probably survive anyways.

(what if he doesn't survive though?

(then he'll be the real failure in the Bat-Clan. Probably won't even get a memorial case—he's not worth it))

Soon, Tim's vision is quickly darkening, and he feels the sweet pull of unconsciousness lull him into her embrace.

Just before he's completely out of it, though, Tim _thinks_ he hears a very familiar modified voice.

"Harper, we've been _over_ this—when are you going to be a competent father again? Look, just give Lian her stuffed toy and—what the ever-loving _fuck!?_ " Barely audible footsteps begin to rush in Tim's direction, and he's a bit confused as to why.

(he's not worth it; Jason needs to finish patrol, not waste time on him)

Just before he's finished melting into unconsciousness' gentle hold, he hears a few words he's honestly surprised to hear.

(then again, maybe they hadn't been said. Maybe Tim's just hearing things.

That would make sense.

(but he's secretly hoping he'd heard right))

"—ter Harper." Then, lower, he _thinks_ (hopes) he heard, "Red? Shit, kid, don't die. Don't you dare fucking die on me Replacement. If you die I'm going to hell and dragging you back to kill you again, then bring you back again because B and the bats—not to mention your friends—would kill me for killing you, even though you deserve the shit if you don't listen to me.

"Don't you _dare_ , fucking die on me."

Everything fades away soon after that.

* * *

Tim comes-to slowly. His head is _pounding_ , and he honestly would rather be dead right now because he's _sore_ and he feels congested as hell.

Squirming to try and escape the cocoon of blankets that swathe him, Tim's pretty sure he just… _whined?_

"S'too hot," he mumbles in a low complaint. Tim still hasn't opened his eyes yet but sees no reason to keep them closed when he's _finally_ out of the blankets.

Slowly cracking his eyes open so he doesn't worsen his headache, and turning his head to look around, Tim has to admit, whatever he'd been expecting hadn't been this.

Just looking at the ceiling should have given him a hint, but Tim's defense right now is that he's sick. He's feeling very ill right now, so he's allowed to be slow.

(he's also confused. Tim remembers the voice, but he'd thought that had been a dream?)

Tim hasn't shifted his gaze at all since it landed on this particular sight.

He's lying on the right side of a relatively soft bed, fully clothed in casual home wear way too big on him—that Tim knows for a _fact_ he hadn't been wearing—and if he shifts a bit, he can feel the rub of bandages on his skin with the accompanying tug of stitches in his side. Where a nightstand might normally be, there instead stands an IV pole with a bag of blood connected to a line in his forearm.

That's all fine and dandy—the rest of the room's clean which is a bonus because Tim's apartment is an absolute _abomination_ that Alfred would have a heart attack over (the tidiness is another clue)—and not what has Tim's attention. The thing that surprises him is that, directly to his left, lies the second former Robin.

Jason Todd.

Jason's lying down sprawled across on the left side of the bed face-down, limbs splayed to give Tim as much room as possible—and Tim can't help but notice those positions _can't_ be comfortable for someone as big as Jason—in nothing other than grey sweats and plain white socks on his feet. Jason looks like he hasn't slept in days, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair even more mussed than normal. Bruises and patches litter what Tim can see of Jason's face, with a bandage or two on his visible back.

(Tim's hoping he wasn't the cause of any of that)

The Red Hood helmet lies discarded on the dresser by the door, and Tim can see the rest of Jason's uniform neatly arranged in the open, normally-hidden compartment just beside the dresser.

Jason's still asleep, despite all of Tim's rustling.

He thinks.

Tim blinks twice more at the sight of Jason—and all those scars holy _shit_ , he knew they all had them but Jason's right up there with _Bruce_ —before looking away again and mentally moving on like nothing out of the ordinary's going on.

_How can I get out of Jason's hair without waking him up?_

A coughing bout reminds him that Tim's not going anywhere until he can breathe without his chest protesting any small action when he's pushed himself upright into a sitting position with his back braced against the headboard.

The sound of Tim's rattling coughs wakes Jason and Tim instantly feels bad for rousing him when he catches sight of Jason's slightly bloodshot green eyes.

Jason groans, lifting a hand to his face and rubbing at his eyes with an index finger and thumb as he props himself up on his right arm. "Tim? You 'wake?"

And _damn_ Jason even _sounds_ exhausted.

Instead of saying the word "Yes", Tim merely hums the affirmative because his throat is _killing_ him.

Jason's brow crinkles and he moves his hand to push himself up off the bed. Blinking rapidly, Jason looks at Tim with narrowed eyes. "How're you—" he's cut off by a yawn. When it passes, Jason stretches and pops the vertebrae in his back before continuing his question. "How're you feelin'?"

Tim shakes his head in response, letting his head fall back against the headboard. He realizes that's probably not a good idea when the headache jumps at the opportunity to worsen. Tim winces at the more persistent pounding.

Shrugging like that's the answer he expected, Jason nods to the IV bag. "You're lucky I'm O negative. Dunno if you'd have survived the trip to Leslie's." Jason yawns again. "When I brought you here, you were already running a cold." Another shrug and Jason runs both hands down his face, talking at the same time. The words are muffled, but Tim can understand them. "Just looks like you got worse. Don't know _why_ though. Thought I did pretty good."

Wait nobody told Jason that Tim's spleen had been removed? Why didn't they—

Oh, right. Tim hasn't told anyone, so there's no-one beside himself who would have been able to tell him.

Tim clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a broken whine. He winces, expecting Jason to laugh and tease him or something, and prepares himself for the verbal assault as he forces his facial expression blank.

Jason doesn't say anything about it, though, as he turns around and leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

Tim groans when Jason's gone, slouching further against the bed and headboard.

 _Why did he bring me here, of all places? Why not the 'Cave? And has he even called Bruce yet?_ Questions run through Tim's head, but he quickly banishes the thoughts. He really doesn't feel like asking them, and he needs a tissue, and a bath because he feels _gross_ , and he would kill for some hot tea or _something for his throat_ , and—

Jason re-enters the room balancing a tray that's tipping suspiciously in one hand, holding a kettle in his other hand. He's also got a plastic red cup in his mouth, and washcloth slung over a broad shoulder.

He's focusing so hard on the tray that his brows are tightly knitted, and the sight is just so hilariously _not_ what one associates with Jason Todd—with the _Red Hood_ —that Tim can't help but laugh. The laughing turns into wracking coughs and Tim's throat reminds him of it's presence, along with his headache.

Jason glances up at Tim with a raised brow as he makes it to the bed, setting down all his items.

"Somethin' funny?"

Once the coughing subsides, Tim shrugs. He tries talking again, but all that comes out is cracked rasping.

Wordlessly, Jason fills the cup with a steaming honey-brown-ish colored liquid and hands it to Tim.

Accepting the drink, Tim raises a questioning look Jason's way.

"S'ginger tea with some honey for good measure. Tastes like shit, but good for your throat," the older explains. Turning away from the bed, Jason walks over to his dresser and pulls out a dark crimson tee. As Jason puts the article of clothing on, the scars that each had numerous tales to tell were hidden away.

Tim looked down at the cup. Jason had nothing to gain from killing him, and he'd saved Tim's life right? So he shouldn't be worried about any poison in the drink or along the rim of the cup…

He _thinks_. Tim can very well be wrong, but his head is practically trying to split in two, so he gets a free pass.

Tentatively, Tim lifts the steaming cup to his lips, blowing a bit to cool the liquid closest to his mouth, though it'll probably have little effect. Eh, no biggie. Tim was a coffee addict in High School—things don't burn the way they should.

The liquid is just above warm in his mouth as Tim tips the cup back. His face scrunches up a bit at the odd taste, but when he swallows, the way the tea travels down his throat, it leaves a soothing warmth in it's wake that practically makes Tim _melt_.

The way the tea soothes his throat is so blissful he takes three more _long_ sips from the desirable liquid before simply holding it in his hands.

(now the hard part)

Jason's moved back to the bed and is dipping the washcloth into the tray. Tim'll admit that he's surprised when the cloth comes out wet and can't help but wonder why Jason didn't just use a bowl instead of the surgical tray.

Jason glances over.

Tim dares to speak.

"Why didn't you use a bowl?" His throat still hurts, and his voice is a little raspy, but it's marginally better than before and Tim relishes in the fact that his throat is soothed.

Jason looks back down at the dripping cloth. Twisting it so that some of the water leaks out, but not all of it, Jason replies, "Don't have any."

Tim's caught off-guard by the casual response and he feels his brows knit together in contemplation. "What? Why don't you have any bowls?"

A one-shoulder shrug is his response for a minute. "'Cause I broke 'em."

Tim decides he's not going to ask.

He's thinking about what Jason might've done to his Red Robin uniform when Jason approaches his side of the bed. The cloth is still dripping, and Jason presses it against Tim's face.

The feeling of the cool water against his sweat-matted face is absolutely wonderful and Tim can't help but lean into the touch as his eyes close.

By the time Jason talks again, Tim's face is no longer wet from sweat, rather from the cool liquid of the washcloth left, as Jason unfolds the rag and drapes it on the back of Tim's neck once the younger shifted enough.

"What the fuck, Tim?"

Startled by Jason's sudden query, Tim manages a quick, "What?" before his brain begins to process the question.

Jason's full-on glaring the most intense Bat-glare Tim's been subjected to since he'd first approached Bruce about being Robin. It's decidedly worse, in some ways, since Jason adds a bit of the Red Hood intimidation, and it _almost_ has Tim squirming. Not quite.

Instead, Tim's face remains expressionless.

(so this is when Jason begins yelling and shouting at him for setting foot in _his_ turf and kicks him out)

Tim's surprised when he hears the reasoning behind Jason's anger, though. "I _said_ _:_ What. The. _Fuck, Tim._ Two nights ago I find you bleeding out _alone_ on a rooftop. Then I bring you here, to my apartment, and as I'm patching you up, I see several _other_ bandages and pressure patches checkering your entire torso and _back?_ What the fuck is wrong with you! Goddamnit," he says, slamming his hand down on the bed, "doesn't anyone in this dumbass family have a _little_ self-preservation?! I thought you were the smart one, Tim! We all know you hardly sleep—and I've got _no_ problem with that…If you'd at least sleep five hours! You look like you haven't slept for five days and went toe-to-toe with a tiger or some shit in between!"

Jason swore in several languages before pinching the bridge of his nose and calming, which is probably a good thing since his eyes had started to glow.

"Fucking take care of yourself better, and that's coming from _me_ _."_ Jason narrows his eyes at Tim. "Unless you're trying to get yourself killed?"

Tim sighs, gazing into the cup in his hands. "I'm not suicidal, Jason. I've been busy."

Jason scoffs. "Busy with _what_ _,_ exactly?"

Tim shoots Jason a hard glare, mentally debating with himself.

(why does Red Hood even care anyway? About a year ago he was trying to kill Tim, and now he cares if his replacement dies?)

Sighing in resignation, Tim decides there's no harm in telling Jason _some_ of what he's been doing. "Bruce needs me to handle a majority of WE stuff, Dick's got me looking into a few of the drug lords over in Blϋdhaven, and I've got the Titans mission reports along with the Titans period. So, sorry Jason, if I'm a little to busy to be concerned about sleeping enough and wasting valuable time on a few cuts and scrapes that'll heal either way."

(Jason'll throw him out now. Here it comes

(Tim really doesn't want to get thrown out, though. His apartment is too… empty.

(it reminds him of when he was a kid)))

Jason looks stunned. "You… _What the fuck!_ " The reasoning behind his newfound rage, again, surprises Tim. "That _goddamn_ self-absorbed _asshole_ _!_ Bruce is dumping his work shit on you, and Goldielocks can't handle his own shit either? Fucking hell!" Jason looks like he's ready to viciously slaughter someone but storms from the room, slamming the door shut so hard it bounces back open.

A few minutes later, Tim hears what sounds like pots banging and he slides off the bed on unstable feet to go check out what's going on.

Nearing the door, Tim can hear Jason's voice as he apparently talks to either himself or into the phone. Walking down the small hallway, Tim finds himself in a living room opened to the kitchen. From where he stands, Tim can see Jason angrily throwing ingredients into a pot and yelling into the phone simultaneously.

"—verworked! Tim has his own fucking shit to do, Blue Bird! He's got a fucking team—that used to be _yours_ _,_ just in case you don't remember—he's got his own nightlife, and he's got his own job! Stop throwing all of your shit on him just 'cause you need a break! Shit, if _anyone_ in this malfunctioning family needs a break it'd be Alfie and Tim. Not you! Okay, you work as a cop, but you made that choice! B didn't want you as a two-bit cop, _you_ chose that! Stop making Tim deal with whatever you can't, just stop taking on more than what you can handle, pendejo!"

Jason grabs the phone off his shoulder and hangs up before dialing a second number.

Still standing in the hall with the still-warm cup clutched protectively against his chest, Tim decides to sit on the forest green couch in front of the large TV. As he sits down and places the cup—albeit reluctantly—on the coffee table between the couch and television, Tim listens as Jason starts yelling again.

"Take care of your own goddamn business Bruce! My replacement is _not_ just a soldier you can order around; I refuse to let him be used like that! It's called _Wayne_ Enterprises, not _Drake_ -Wayne!" Jason pauses as he listens to whatever Bruce, apparently, says before exploding into the phone as he turns away from the pot. _"_ _I don't give a shit!_ Handle your night and day-life on your own, you _insensitive_ jackass! Tim's got you _and_ Dick pushing _your_ shit on him! Oh and don't forget he's got his _Titans!_ The Titans, which he's doing better with than you or Dick _ever_ could—hell we all know he's doing a fucking miracle compared to _me_ , so deal with your own shit! And don't fucking tell me you can't handle it on your own, because you'b been able to the _entire_ time with me and Dick. You two assholes are going to work that kid into the grave, and he doesn't deserve that. Fucking doesn't deserve this life or _us_ _."_

Jason hangs up the phone, slamming it down on the countertop, before turning back to the pot and stirring it.

The only sounds of the apartment become Jason's muttering, Tim's occasional cough or sneeze, and the boiling pot.

Tim stares into the black television screen. On it is Tim's dark reflection. As he gazes at himself, Tim's mind works to figure out why Jason seems to care so much. Jason has no reason to care. He lays no claim to being involved with the Bat-Family. The Bat-Clan, sure, but Tim doesn't think he really _has_ a spot in the complicated clan, much less the family.

He thinks over what Jason said about Tim not being a soldier for Bruce to order around. Isn't he one, though? He wasn't ever really Bruce's son, and wasn't exactly his Robin… So doesn't that just make him a soldier? He's got none of the legitimace of a son, and none of the significance of being _Batman's_ Robin, since he wasn't chosen for either of those things. He'd forced himself into Bruce's life. Bruce hadn't _picked_ him, the way he had Dick and Jason. Hell, even Damian has more of a place in his life. Damian is his _blood_ kid, so it doesn't matter if he was forced into Bruce's life.

Then it finally hits him.

Jason had said Tim doesn't deserve all the work he's got. He'd said Tim doesn't deserve to be a vigilante. He'd said Tim doesn't deserve them.

(he hadn't said Tim deserves it all

(what does he think Tim deserves then? What does he see in Tim? What worth?)

What… What did he mean by that?

He's brought out of his musings when Jason holds a container of something that smells _great_ in front of him with a spoon inside. Tim finally notices the wonderful aroma that's spread throughout the apartment, as he grabs the container. Jason takes a seat to his left and props his feet up on the coffee table.

"Soup," is all Jason tells him before grabbing the remote and turning the TV on.

Tim looks over at the other former Robin for a second before starting on the soup. The first spoonful is _heaven_ and Tim doesn't stop eating until there's nothing left of it. His insides feel comfortably warm, and Tim sighs in pleasure. If there's anything that doesn't have to do with vigilantism Jason's good at, it's cooking and cleaning.

Emphasis on the cooking part.

When he looks up at the TV screen, Tim notices Jason's watching _John Wick_ when John breaks into a small pound to do a quick patch job on a gash near his hip. It's near the end of the movie.

Jason and Tim sit in silence until the credits start rolling.

If he ignores it any longer, Tim knows he'll lose his nerve, so he decides to rip off the metaphorical bandage. "What did you mean?"

His voice is barely above a whisper, but Jason's already muted the television, so Tim knows he can hear him.

Jason shifts a bit in his seat to get comfortable. "What did I mean…?"

Tim blurts out the rest of the question. "What did you mean when you said I don't… I don't deserve all that?"

Jason looks over at him and stares for a few seconds before sighing. "Look, kid, I don't hate you. I know you probably think I hate your guts, but I don't okay? What happened back then… I was a hurt kid with Pit madness consuming my mind. I did what I did because it hurt. I was in pain, and needed Batman to hurt the same way I was. I… It wasn't anything I had against you, kid." He paused and seemed to consider his net words carefully.

Tim… He's stunned speechless.

(who'd have thought Jason was so good at that?)

"…What I meant when I said you don't deserve all that I said you didn't, was that you're a good, smart, kid, and you should be in college, getting a bachelor or master's degree in whatever the hell you want because you're just that fucking smart, with a girlfriend that's good for you, and a normal life.

"You don't deserve to have your life as fucked-up as it is. You didn't deserve to have to be Robin, you didn't deserve my attack on you, you didn't deserve to have everything ripped away from you. You don't deserve everything that being associated with us—with the Bats—brings. You don't deserve all the pain, all the tragedy, all the _suffering,_ that comes with being a Bat." Tim looks up to see Jason looking at him softly, but with a burning passion in his eyes as he speaks, his voice filled with the same force and passion.

"You… You don't deserve having to deal with Bruce. You don't deserve having to deal with Dick or Damian. And…

"You don't deserve having to deal with me and my bullshit. My killing is supposed to be a slap in the face for Batman; a burden for Batman, not you or Alfred." Jason snorts here. "The only one of us you _do_ deserve is Alfred. He's good or us all."

This isn't… Jason doesn't _really_ mean…

"You…" _Damn_ it, the sneeze that cuts him off is _such_ bad timing, because it makes the tears that had welled up in Tim's eyes drip down his cheeks*. He sniffles—it's the _fever_ —and tries again. "You don't really mean that, do you?"

"I meant every word, Tim."

The feeling bubbling up in Tim's chest isn't a cough or sneeze… It's… It feels _nice_. It feels _good_. Tim slides his gaze over to his red cup.

But his mouth decides to open, and his tongue decides to move, without his consent. "But I'm not worth the kind of life you said I am."

Jason gives Tim a hard look and sits up. "Who told you that? Who told you you're not worth something good? Tell me so I can put a bullet in their chest."

Tim shakes his head. "Nobody, I just… Don't see it."

"Tim." He looks over at Jason again. "You're definitely worth something. You're a fucking genius who discovered the real identity of Batman—at, what, nine?—and figured out there'd been more than one Robin a helluva lot quicker than anyone else did. You're Timothy Drake-Wayne. You're Alfred's grandson, Bruce's son, Dick's brother, and Damian's brother. You're the leader of the Teen Titans and a tech whiz. You're someone Ra's al Ghul _admires_. You're best friends with Superman's clone, and Flash's grandkid." Jason exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a few seconds. He leans forward on his knees and lets his head hand for a minute or two before continuing in a lower voice.

"Fuck, Tim, you're my little brother. You _are_ worth more. I can't fucking tell you what your merit is because I can't describe it. But Red Hood's brother? You have to recognize what that means you're worth. Tim, you are worth way more than you think. So don't tell me you don't see your value, because I'll beat it into you if I have to.

"Got it Babybird?"

Tim has his face in his hands now. His tears are wetting them as they pass them on their way down his cheeks. He feels as they drip from his chin, but doesn't feel where they land.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care, because hearing everything Jason said…

It hit him. It hit him just how much virtue Jason sees in him, and now Tim's willing to bet the rest of the… of the _family_ , shares the sentiment if not even stronger. And Kon and Bart…

Tim wonders what they'd say.

"Don't you dare tell Dick about this, Babybird." Tim's confused for a second before he feels strong arms wrap around him and hold him close against a firm chest.

A hug.

Tim's getting a hug, and it's not Dick hugging him this time. It's Jason, and the fact that it's _Jason_ —the guy who hates all forms of physical contact aside from hitting—who's holding Tim in such an embrace…

God, this means a lot for Tim.

"You're my little brother, and you're worth every good thing in your life, okay Timmy?"

Tim nods against Jason and wraps his own arms tightly against Jas—against his _brother_.

They stay like that for a while until Jason turns on _John Wick 2_ , and Jason makes a bag of popcorn.

As they sit side-by-side—with a box of much-needed tissues and another cup of steaming goodness—Tim feels… He feels good. Happy.

He's falling asleep somewhere around the middle of the movie, but before he falls asleep he whispers, "Thanks Jay."

Tim's not sure, but he thinks he hears Jason answer, "Sure thing Babybird. Do me a favor though and don't tell Dick."

Tim falls asleep with a contented smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> The past always affects our futures, but the way it does is up to you. You can let it forever ruin your life and make things worse, or you can accept that what happened, happened, learn from it, and move on with your life. Things affect us all but it's always the way you let it affect you that makes the difference. Tim's subconsciously accepting his past and hugging his younger self, and he's moving on with his life. Tim's not letting what happened to him lurk in his subconscious and make decisions and assumptions based on it anymore. He's leaving his past experiences behind them, he's learned that no matter how his parents made him feel, he is worth something, and he's moving on from it. He's moving on to a life with people he finally gets to see care about him, and, thanks to a certain big brother, he gets to see how much he's worth to them. He'll figure out how much he means to himself a little bit later, but, for now, he's content with knowing how much merit he holds in the eyes of his family.
> 
> *I'm not trying to make Tim seem sensitive, because I know he's not that sensitive, but I think hearing what he did would at least make him tear up. The sneeze was what made him start crying when it forced Tim's eyes to involuntarily squeeze shut and therein force the tears from his eyes.
> 
> Tell me what you guys thought, yeah?
> 
> P.S. If you're reading this, and you don't think you're worth much, remember that there is someone who loves you. Whether you're religious or not—and I hope you don't take this as me forcing my religion on you since, really, I'm not making you read all this down here—there exists a God who loves you. Even if you don't think that there is one, I'm betting you've got friends as close as family and/or family who love you. You've got people who think you're worth the world, and maybe even their lives, if you don't believe there is a God who thinks that of you. Even if they don't say that's what they think of you—that's your merit to them—know that they feel it all the same. Know they love you, value you, and care about you all the same.
> 
> If you've made what you think is an unforgiveable mistake, they'll continue to value you in spite of it. No matter how many times you've fucked-up, no matter how many mistakes you've made and are probably going to make, they'll love you and value you all the same. They'll never stop loving you because they've made mistakes too, and you still love your family (even if you don't think you do) too.
> 
> You're valuable, you're worth more than all the diamonds and gold in the world, and there are people who care about you.
> 
> Don't forget that.
> 
> Have a great week :)


End file.
